


Bad Blood

by andthebluestblue



Series: Running in the Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Crack, Graphic Depiction of Suicide, Overdose, attempted suicide, self-injury, shoddy medical logic, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Siobhan Moran comes home to find Jim bleeding out on the hallway carpet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shayvaalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Runs in the Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360148) by [Shayvaalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski). 



> If you haven't read "Runs in the Family" by Shayvaalski, this is going to be completely incomprehensible.  
> If you have, it's still going to be utterly inexplicable crack. I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not, even a little.
> 
> Occurs three years after Runs in the Family.
> 
> In case it's not clear from context, Tommy is Siobhan's friend who I may or may not do something with later.

Siobhan has been walking home from school on her own for about two months. Well, mostly on her own—she doesn't count Tommy as company, but neither does anyone else, so that's alright. 

So she walks as far as his parent's house with Tommy, and then walks the half kilometer to her own, where Jim will be waiting for her, usually either with a snack (which Seb sets up before he leaves for work every day because Mum is never ever allowed to touch the stove or the microwave, you call me if he tries, Siobhan) or a new project. Recently they've been working on Siobhan's skinning—she's got an advantage because her smaller hands can hold a knife more closely, but Mum can still take cleaner pieces off a rabbit than she can, and she's privately (to Tommy, of course) resolved to have him beat by the time she moves up from first year. 

Dad set up a bit of a fuss when she decided that she didn't want Mum walking out to meet her anymore, but she had put her foot down, and a couple of the teachers had written notes regarding the exceptional emotional maturity and level of responsibility so impressive in a child who had skipped two years, and that they really felt a show of support in this move towards autonomy would be a positive thing, and there was really no need for Mr. Moran to come to the school every day. Or ever. And Mum had pulled Dad aside and said some things in a crooning voice that always made Dad go sort of apoplectic and then told Siobhan to go see if Tommy wanted some company. (Tommy, who had been waiting patiently outside the house for Siobhan to notice him, did.) 

When she came back, after a carefully-timed three hours, Dad had told her to be careful walking home, made her memorize a map of the surrounding five kilometers, and taught her three more ways to disable a man trying to attack her. So that was alright. 

Siobhan thinks that pretty soon they'll be ready to hear that she knows exactly what happens when she leaves the house. Mum told her the first time, after all— _Run along, pet, I have to go make your daddy beg me to fuck him_ —and Dad should know that she doesn't ever forget information. Still, Dad seems happier thinking she doesn't know, and she's not quite bored of the charade yet. Perhaps she'll save it for when she wants something: Dad's easy, if you can startle him. Mum says it's the result of years of careful training, that Seb will automatically agree if he's not sure what's going on. 

Today it's Friday, which means that Mum will probably have a rabbit for her to practice on, and Siobhan is idly looking forward to it as she pushes the kitchen door open. There's no one there, and it doesn't look like anything is set up—the tarp they started putting over the table (after Dad threw a fit about cooking on blood stains) is missing, and she can't see the skinning knives anywhere. Siobhan does what Mum taught her, goes completely still and _listens_ , and yes, there—there's someone breathing in the hall outside the bathroom. She can tell they're prey by the signs from that same lesson—breathing coming from lower, either crouching or lying on the floor, she's not close enough to tell; breathing slightly elevated, fear or excitement, a slightly wet quality that means injury or struggle. Siobhan hopes somebody tried to break into the house—Mum was in a good mood for days when that happened. Just in case, Siobhan slides the knife Dad gave her out of her sleeve, shifts herself from the completely motionless stance Mum taught her into the hunting stillness she learned from Dad. She drops to the floor—even if they were expecting someone crouching, they'll aim for the head of a full-grown man, not a small girl—and throws herself around the corner, speed to compensate for size. 

 

It's not that Siobhan doesn't understand what she sees, or that it doesn't register. She prides herself on the quickness of her mind, and this is no exception. There is no pause for the scene to resolve. So later, she doesn't understand how slowly she reacted—calm, collected, she tells herself, though the medical qualifications for shock run unpleasantly through her head when she does. 

Jim is lying partially propped in the doorway of the bathroom. Eye movement reads as mostly unconscious, partially aware of either his surroundings or a separate hallucinatory reality. Cracked lips, quality of skin suggest dehydration, combined with elevated breathing and semi-conscious state most likely overdose. Pill bottles visible on bathroom floor add to likelihood. Two bottles, previous memories indicate Tylenol one-half full, other was two-thirds full of multi-vitamins. Medical recommendation would involve induced vomiting, followed by ingestion of neutralizing agent. If patient is unable to swallow then stomach should be pumped and charcoal induced through tube. Primary concern with overdose normally liver failure; case complicated by blood loss. Main concern now dehydration. Injuries across both wrists, amount of blood on floor means at least ulnar vein severed, tendon or muscle damage a possibility but not a priority. Highest priority would be to stop blood loss, restore fluids. Difficult to resolve in conjunction with inducing vomiting, recommendation—

She doesn't realize she's babbling until Seb's voice cuts in. She's got her mobile out, standing in the hallway, she doesn't remember dialing or standing up. 

"Okay, baby, okay—listen to me. Siobhan. Are you listening?" and his voice is so calm, calmer than she's ever heard it. 

"Yes," and so is her voice. Good. She's calm. They are both calm, everything is fine, Mum is bleeding out on the hallway carpet. 

"I'm in the car but it's going to be at least twenty minutes before I get there. I need to you help me, Siobhan, can I ask you to do that?"

"Yes," because she can hold this until Dad is here to fix it, just like Tommy holding a squirrel while she chooses a knife. 

"Do you remember what I taught you about tourniquets? I need you to stop the blood loss. You need to cut off the blood flow to both of his wrists."

"Wrap a towel or bandanna several inches above the injury. Place an item such as a dowel or wooden spoon on top of the knot. Tie a second knot around the rod. Twist—"

"Yes, sweetheart, please, that's right. Everything you need is in the box under the kitchen sink."

"I'm going to put down the phone," and she does, carefully out of reach of the still-spreading blood, moving calmly, still collected, video of Dad teaching her how to tie a tourniquet playing in her head. They'd practiced on Mum's leg, white skin golden in the summer sun, out on a picnic, Mum laughing and threatening to make Seb carry him everywhere if they cut off circulation and he lost the leg. 

Everything is in the box—Dad's emergency box: bandages and needles, ipecac and antidotes, and a defibrillator down at the bottom, dowels neatly clipped to the inside of the lid. One of the first things she remembers Seb making her memorize perfectly was the set-up of the box, until she could pack and unpack it blindfolded. Just in case, he'd said. 

The tourniquet is a little more difficult now—Mum moves slightly but only away, skin feeling thick and cold, and Siobhan is grateful for the practice with skinning so that she knows how to compensate for the slickness blood causes. She hesitates over the left wrist—the cut isn't as deep, and it's not certain if the vein has been cut. She lifts the hand, stretching the skin, and ignores the sound Jim makes. Yes—not entirely severed but may have been partially opened, and normally it might not need a tourniquet (potentials benefits vs. risk of limb loss) but compounded with other injuries it would be advised. 

He seems more aware now, restless movements of his head and legs, and there's a gagging noise, like he's trying to cough but can't breath in. Seb has taught her to recognize and treat an overdose but not more than that, and she's never done the research on her own, thought it was boring, none of the cleverness of broken veins or the wonder of broken bones against the pavement. She doesn't know exactly what is happening inside him, and she has to fight down the part of her that wants to cut him open and see. Go to the medical textbooks in the bedroom and find out. 

Instead she goes back to the phone. When she picks it up, Seb is quietly swearing, still calm. She listens for a moment, wondering if the blood will ruin her phone. Maybe she'll get a new one. 

"He's not bleeding anymore."

The swearing stops. "You did good, baby, thank you. Three minutes. Siobhan, can you tell me what he took? I can figure it out but you'll be faster." She recites it to him, lips dry, thirsty, but the bathroom sink is full of broken mirror. 

"Are there any liquor bottles?"

They don't even keep wine in the house, and she's surprised, but tells him there aren't—just the pills, an empty glass that she can tell by the smell contained water. 

"Good. Good. Okay, baby, I'm in the driveway, I'm here, it's going to be okay—" and she's vaguely unsettled; of course it's going to be okay, why would he say that. 

He's not running when he comes through the kitchen door, just that stretching walk Mum can never keep up with and always complains about. Dad doesn't check the latch on the box before grabbing the handle: part of training was closing the box whenever her hands weren't in it. He ends on his knees beside Mum, one hand cradling the back of his head, other hand moving through the box—Siobhan is gratified and a little alarmed to see that he doesn't know it nearly as well as she does. 

"Can you open the first bottle of ipecac and hand it to me, baby?" And he glances back at her, face calm, while his hand checks for a pulse at Mum's neck. 

She nods, moves away from the wall to the box. Shoes will have to be burned, no way to really clean blood stains. She has some trouble opening the bottle but realizes she's still holding the phone—she drops it in the blood, and it's definitely going to need to be replaced now. 

Mum is definitely more awake now, eyelids fluttering, restless incomplete movements of the hands. Dad pours a little of the bottle into his mouth, waits for him to swallows, murmuring soothing things, then a little more, then suddenly upends the entire bottle, holds Mum's mouth and head steady as he tries to thrash, chest heaving, throat convulsing. He's still saying those soothing things, a little louder now, pressing his forehead to Mum's. After a moment Dad releases him and he slumps against the door-frame, loose, liquid seeping from his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

Dad works quickly, shifts the lax body over the toilet, propped between the bowl and his chest. He has some trouble finding a vein, and Siobhan is about to offer when he finally pushes the needle all the way in. He hooks up the IV, sticking a suction cup to the wall and hanging the bag.

“You did good, baby. You stopped the blood loss—he’s not going to need a transfusion. That’s good, I don’t keep blood here anymore.” His hands are still moving: threading a needle, pulling on latex gloves, dousing everything in anti-septic. 

“Right wrist worse?” he asks, and Siobhan nods. He sets neat, quick stitches—Siobhan has never seen this side of her large, careless father, and she is fascinated. The closest thing she’s seen is when he cleans a gun, everything slotting into place. He’s just set the knot, started to rethread the needle, when Jim suddenly convulses, vomits into the toilet. 

“Shit,” Dad hisses, still calm, but disappointed—finding out your lotto ticket didn’t win. Resigned. “If you lose that hand, Boss, it is _not_ my fault.”

“You can remove the tourniquet,” Siobhan says. “Principal damage was to right wrist, blood loss from left wrist severe but not critical. Damage done with non-dominant hand is often negligible.”

He hesitates for the first time, still supporting Mum, and then nods. “I’ll risk it. Bastard’ll never let me hear the end of it if he loses that hand. Hand me the scissors, and then I want you to go play outside with Tommy for a while.”

 

Siobhan waits until it is beginning to get dark before sending Tommy home and re-entering the house. It’s unlit and almost-silent, but she can hear murmuring voices from their bedroom as she removes her shoes. Then Dad’s footsteps, the bedroom door open and shut. The hall light switches on, and there’s a long pause. Siobhan moves to the corner where the hall meets the kitchen, and she sees Dad standing, back to the wall beside the bedroom door, still wearing that calm, unruffled expression, eyes shut. Before she can say anything, his face abruptly twists, crumples, and he seems to _collapse_ into himself, sliding down to crouch against the wall, hands over his face. This is what she will remember, later—the sight of her strong father curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, undone. 

“Fuck, Jim— _why,_ ” and his voice is worse, exhausted, breaking, and this is something she cannot handle, worse than blood or mothers lying on the floor. This is what Mum has warned her about, the strange part of Dad that neither of them can understand, but more—not just the way he ruffles her hair when she bring marks home or the way he looks at Mum when he fixes Dad’s collar; something that is trying to echo in her. But she is too much empty space, and the push is agonizing. She makes a noise—Dad’s entire posture changes in an instant, going from exhaustion to concentration, face still. 

“We’ll have to replace this rug. Do you want to choose the color?” And only then does he look at her, as though he knew she was there the whole time. She nods, not knowing what to say, and he smiles. 

“Mum’s going to sleep for a while. Do you want me to make macaroni for dinner?”

She smiles too, and it feels odd on her face, though she learned how to smile years ago. “Sure, Dad. I’d like that.” 


End file.
